


Lit From Within

by fengirl88



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Kissbingo, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-01
Updated: 2010-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-13 11:33:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh right,” John says.  “So my flatmate is a famous Hollywood actress.  Oh, and secretly a redhead into the bargain. I must tell him, he'll <i>love</i> that.”</p><p>An outing to the cinema has consequences the screenwriters probably hadn't envisaged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lit From Within

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "emotion: surprise" square on my kissbingo card. Dedicated to blooms84, who pointed out the resemblance in the first place and beta'ed the results.

They're half-way back to Baker Street after the film when Clara starts laughing.

“What is it this time?” John says.

 _The Philadelphia Story_ has so many laugh-out-loud moments that it could be almost anything.

“I've just worked out who Katharine Hepburn reminds me of,” Clara says.

“Go on then,” John says. He can't always follow Clara's connections, but there's usually some logic to them, however far-fetched.

“It's Sherlock!” Clara says triumphantly.

“Oh right,” John says. “So my flatmate is a famous Hollywood actress. Oh, and secretly a redhead into the bargain. I must tell him, he'll _love_ that.”

“Come _on_ ,” Clara says, “it's obvious. Cold, haughty, skinny, posh, tall, amazing cheekbones, self-centred, arrogant, obnoxious, spoilt, rude to everyone...”

“Yes, all right, thank you!” John snaps. “You don't have to go right through the card, though I'm sure you _could_.”

Clara gives him a slightly odd look. “Sorry,” she says. “I didn't realize.”

Which of course just makes things worse.

“Didn't realize what?” John asks, preparing to take offence.

“Didn't realize you'd become friends as well as flatmates,” she says, keeping her tone light.

Even that deliberate lightness is an added sting. She can't unsay the words and he can't get rid of them, feels as if he's choking on them. They walk on in uncomfortable silence for a bit and then Clara stops dead.

“Shit!” she says. “Sorry, John, I've just realized I forgot something back at Chambers that I need for tomorrow. I'd better go and get it.”

John finds he's laughing instead of choking, which is definitely an improvement.

“That is the least convincing double take I've _ever_ seen,” he says.

“Guilty as charged,” Clara says, without rancour. “But I'd like to see _you_ come up with a better one in the circumstances.”

He hugs her. “I'm sorry I snapped at you.”

“It's OK. But I think I _am_ going to head off now. Let me know if you still want to go to _His Girl Friday._ And get some sleep, you look as if you need it.”

 

John walks back to Baker Street, thinking about Katharine Hepburn in the film, how aloof and untouchable she is, how apparently unfeeling, until she gets drunk and is kissed by James Stewart, wakes up with a shocking hangover and finally steps down from her pedestal for the happy ending. The happy ending with Cary Grant.

It annoys John that Hepburn and Stewart don't end up together in this one, despite all the big talk about how class doesn't matter. Because that scene between them, clunky dialogue and all, is just _amazing_. The disbelief in Hepburn's voice as she says _I don't seem to you to be made of bronze?_ , and the sheer wonder in Stewart's: _No, you're made out of flesh and blood. That's the blank, unholy surprise of it._

He needn't have snapped at Clara like that. It's not _her_ fault he's the ordinary guy in this picture rather than the suave wisecracking hero. It's not her fault that Sherlock _is_ a bit like Katharine Hepburn: Hepburn the way she is before the kiss that changes everything.

That sort of transformation just doesn't happen in real life.

On the other hand, Sherlock's worldview doesn't set much store by real life: _sounds a bit dull_. A man who believes in archenemies and swoops around London in that coat like some kind of gorgeous impossible vampire is hardly a stranger to melodrama.

 _You're a writer now_ , he thinks. _A writer of sorts, anyway. If you don't like the Hollywood ending, make up a better one._

 

Sherlock's brooding on the sofa; he could perfectly well have come to the film with them but he chose to stay home and sulk. His skin's so pale it's no wonder John finds himself thinking of statues again. But then the flat is quite cold.

John turns up the thermostat and puts the kettle on for some tea. He's not sure alcohol would be a good idea at this point, but he needs something to warm him up. Warm both of them up.

Sherlock comes into the kitchen and fiddles moodily with a cup, which he manages to break, John's not sure how.

“You've cut yourself,” John says. “Here, let me-”

“Don't fuss, _Doctor_ ,” Sherlock says, snatching his cold hand away from John's warm ones, “I can do it myself.”

“At least let me make sure it's not too deep.”

“I _said_ , don't fuss, Doctor.”

The bored tone catches John on the raw.

“That's really all I am to you, is it?” he demands.

“Right now, yes,” Sherlock says.

“Are you sure?” John says, pushing Sherlock against the fridge and kissing him full on the mouth.

Sherlock makes a startled sort of _uhunh_ noise that turns into a moan. He kisses John back. Kisses as if he's trying to fuse all the kisses they could have shared over the past weeks into a single one. Kisses so intently that John has to cling on tight because his legs seem to have stopped working.

Sherlock's face when they finally break apart, gasping for air, is so blazingly happy that John can hardly look at him.

“Should have done that ages ago,” John says shakily.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, and kisses him again.

Flesh and blood, John thinks dizzily, warm and breathing and desiring in his arms, _the blank, unholy surprise of it_.

“I don't know why you're looking so startled when _you're_ the one who kissed _me_ in the first place,” Sherlock says, sounding both so characteristically pleased with himself and so uncharacteristically shy that John has to hug him even tighter than before.

Sherlock is starting to pull at John's clothes, and the kitchen really isn't the best place for this.

“Upstairs,” John says. “Now.”

Sherlock doesn't argue, which is probably just as well, as John needs to concentrate on getting as far as the bedroom.

Tomorrow he's going to have to text Clara and tell her she was spot on about Katharine Hepburn. Right now, though, he's got an urgent appointment with a happy ending.

**Author's Note:**

> The relevant scene from _The Philadelphia Story_ is here:
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-rzJfU5ZsVM&feature=related


End file.
